Forget Regret
by RookieMistake
Summary: Clint's been plagued by nightmares of Loki ever since the battle of Manhattan. When he meets a stranger at a bar, will things finally start to look up for the hawk?


_Clint saw the glint from those green eyes only inches away from his own. He wanted to scream, to fight back, but he couldn't. Clint was a prisoner in his own mind._

_He felt Loki's hand trailing down his bare chest, stopping just above his navel. Loki's smooth lips pressed against his neck, ghosting tender kisses down to his collarbone. Clint shuddered involuntarily, disgusted at the way his body was reacting to this. Part of him though, the part controlled by the spear, _wanted_ it. _

"_When I asked you what the Tesseract showed you, what did you say?" Loki asked, his voice quiet and silky. The more he spoke, the more Clint wanted to silence him with a kiss. He wasn't sure if it was the spear's influence or Loki's silver tongue, but the pull was strong._

"_It showed me my next target." Clint said, his voice gruff as usual. So much innocent blood on his hands, the people he killed while serving Loki. He could hear Natasha saying not to do that to himself, and he wanted to look around, to call out to her for help, but he couldn't pull his eyes from the Asgardian._

"_And then what did I ask you?" Loki muttered quietly, snuggling closer into Clint._

"_You asked me what I needed."_

"_And what do you need?" Loki's lips were hovering right over Clint's throat, his breath hot against Clint's skin._

"_You."_

Clint bolted upright, his skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His breathing was heavy, and as the dream began to come back to him, he pulled his knees up close to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The sheet around his legs stuck to his bare chest, soaking through with his sweat. It took some concentration, but Clint was finally able to steady his breathing and slow his heartbeat.

He sat in the darkness for a few minutes, trying to decide his next move. Normally Clint liked to distance himself from a problem, to look at it objectively, but this was something he couldn't get away from, no matter how hard he tried. Finally, Clint uncurled himself, stretching out his tense muscles. Maybe a shower would help him clear his mind.

He silently padded his way to the bathroom, where he started the water. He was hoping the shower would pull double duty: the hot water would relax his muscles and the steam would clear his head. Clint turned the dials to get the water to the right temperature before shucking his sleep pants and tossing them in the hamper.

Clint stepped into the warm spray, the water washing the sweat from his body. He grabbed the bar of soap, running it between his hands to work up a lather, but the moment he pressed his sudsy hand to his chest, he could feel Loki's breath on his neck.

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and finished his shower, forcing down any thoughts of Loki. He got out of the shower and dried himself, wrapping a towel around his waist. He was glad that he'd moved out of Natasha's place a couple of months ago, because this was becoming a regular occurrence for him. Clint made his way to the small kitchen, rifling through cabinets.

"J.A.R.V.I.S.," he called out, looking around at the bare walls of the kitchen. If anyone had looked through Clint's apartment, they might wonder if anyone actually lived there. He carried no personal effects, had no pictures hanging on the wall, nothing of the sort.

"Yes, Mr. Barton?" Came the voice of the automated system that had been installed in his apartment. Everyone who had participated in the Battle of New York had an instance running in their house, a "gift" from Stark Industries, in case they needed to be contacted.

"Why is there no booze in the house?" Clint demanded, trying to sound indignant, but he only ended up sounding tired.

"Because you have not purchased any since you finished the last of what you previously owned."

Clint opened his mouth to respond, but closed it when it dawned on him that he'd been out-sassed by a machine. He crossed his arms and started tapping his foot. "Where is the closest open place that serves alcohol?"

"It seems that there is a bar called Buddy's only a couple of blocks from here."

"Great. I'll get dressed and you can send the directions to my phone." Clint said, heading back to the bedroom. He looked through his closet, trying to decide what to wear. Eventually he settled on a white vneck and a pair of jeans. Clint gave himself one last look in the mirror before grabbing his phone and heading toward the door.

"Mr. Barton, would you like me to prepare your car?" J.A.R.V.I.S. asked.

"No, I'll walk." Clint's hand was already on the door handle.

"You might want to grab a jacket, then. It's a bit cold outside." Clint let out a breath. Now the stupid machine was trying to mother him. He hadn't wanted the J.A.R.V.I.S. instance installed in his apartment, but when Tony had heard that he'd moved out of Natasha's place, he'd insisted. Clint had resisted the AI at first, ignoring it any time it tried to talk to him, but had eventually given in.

Clint went back to his room and grabbed a leather jacket, throwing it on before he headed out. As much as he didn't want to admit it, J.A.R.V.I.S. had been right, and the air had a bit of a chill to it. Clint kept his head down as he followed the directions on his phone, his need for a drink growing stronger with every step.

Even at three in the morning, the streets of New York City were alive with people and cabs. It really was the city that never slept. Fortunately, the walk to Buddy's was short, and no one tried to talk to Clint on his way there.

Buddy's was a quiet place, and Clint would've walked right past it if he hadn't noticed the name painted in the window. He ducked inside, and was happy to find a rustic pub, and not a club with flashing lights and a baseline so loud it was more felt than heard. Clint glanced around the place as he walked to the bar and noticed a suspicious lack of women.

Clint Barton was not an unintelligent man, and even in his tired and alcohol focused state, it didn't take him long to put the pieces together. The two guys sitting in one of the booths holding hands was also a large indicator. He pulled out his phone and stepped off to the side, where he was sure he wouldn't be heard.

He dialed the number he wanted and pressed his phone to his ear. It rang three times before the call connected.

"Barton residence, J.A.R.V.I.S. speaking."

"J.A.R.V.I.S., this is a gay bar." Clint said, wasting no time with pleasantries or greetings.

"You didn't specify. It was close, it was open, it serves alcohol."

"J.A.R.V.I.S., I'm not gay."

"Have a nice time, Mr. Barton." The AI hung up before Clint could respond. Clint thought about leaving, but J.A.R.V.I.S. did have a point. The place was open and it served booze. If any of the guys here tried to hit on him, he'd just have to let them down easily.

Clint pocketed the cellphone before walking over to the bar and ordering a bottle of beer. He folded his arms across the bar and laid his head down, a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. The bartender set the bottle down in front of him, and Clint lifted his head up, resting his chin on his wrists and staring at the bottle. Finally, after watching a drop of condensation work its way down the side of the bottle, he picked it up and brought it to his lips, letting the cool drink wash down his throat.

"Everything okay there, mate? Ya seem kind of down," a voice to Clint's right said. He looked up to see a tall guy with short black hair, and a bit of scruff on his face smiling down at him.

"It's been a long night," Clint said, truthfully. He didn't really want to talk to this guy, but maybe talking through it was exactly what he needed.

"Want to talk about it?" the guy asked, taking a seat next to Clint. He looked the guy in the eyes, and felt a warm, safe sensation wash over him. They were a warm, soft honey color and held a kindness that Clin't hadn't seen a long time.

"It's a long story," Clint said by way of answer.

"I've got time. I'm Drew, by the way." the guy, Drew, said. He offered Clint his hand, and a soft smile. Clint took another swig of his drink before shaking Drew's hand.

"I'm Clint."

"Nice to meet ya, Clint. Wanna grab a table or something?" Drew asked, gesturing to the empty tables and booths scattered around the bar. Clint grabbed his beer and gestured for Drew to lead the way. He picked a booth near the back of the bar, where they wouldn't be overheard. They'd only just met, and Drew was already being respectful of his privacy.

Clint sat down and Drew slid into the seat across from him. "What's on your mind, mate?"

Clint hadn't noticed it before but Drew had a slight Australian accent. He puffed out his cheeks and let out a prolonged breath before answering. "I can't really talk about it..."

Drew shrugged. "It's alright. I won't pry."

Clint let out a small laugh, the gesture making his shoulders shrug. He took a swig of his beer. "I wish all my friends thought like that. Nine times out of ten they know more about my personal life than I do."

"Hey, the way I figure it, a man's business is his own."

"Yeah...hey, can I ask you a question?"

Drew nodded, and Clint put down his bottle. He danced around what he was wanting to say, trying to figure out how to make it sound the least offensive. "What's a guy like you doing here...I mean.."

"Ya mean New York?" Drew furrowed his brow, not really sure he understood the question. "I moved here for school, and then got a job as a-"

"No, I mean Buddy's," Clint said, keeping his voice low. Drew wasn't exactly the kind of guy he'd expect to be frequenting that sort of establishment.

"Oh.." Drew said quietly. "I dunno, really. I like the atmosphere, it's quiet here. Although, I suppose I could ask you the same question."

"I'm not..I don't..." Clint stammered, his face flushing and his ears turning scarlet.

"I wasn't saying you were. Chill, mate." Drew grinned. Clint lowered his head, his blush growing even more obvious. Drew checked his watch and started to stand. "Well, it was great meeting you, Clint, but I gotta run. Here's my number in case you ever want to talk again."

Drew pulled out a pen and scribbled his phone number on a napkin, pushing it towards Clint. He accepted it, a little dumbfounded. Drew smiled at him before leaving. Clint shook his head to clear it and downed the rest of the beer before heading to the bar to pay for it. When he asked the bartender how much, he just shook his head.

"The guy who just left paid for it. Said you had enough on your mind." Clint nodded, furrowing his eyes together, and left Buddy's, his head muddled with what had just happened. While it was true he was definitely feeling better, despite the fact that he'd only had one beer, he was more confused than he was when he'd left the house, and could only think of one person to help him figure out what was going on: Natasha.


End file.
